


together

by phantomlistener



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:12:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7703581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomlistener/pseuds/phantomlistener
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-ep to "Indefensible".  It's a slow start to something more, but a start nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	together

 It's the end of a busy shift, the last half an hour dragging as slowly as the paperwork is getting filled in, and the usual easy atmosphere in the consultants' office is muted, restrained, a tennis game of almost-smiles and hidden glances.  
  
Bernie lays down her pen with a sigh and leans back in her chair, lets her head fall back to counter the hour spent hunched over a neverending pile of forms, before sitting up and looking directly at her companion.  She hesitates for less than a second: "Coming out for a drink?"    
  
Serena doesn't quite meet her eyes, busying herself instead with shuffling and reshuffling the folders on her desk.  "I don't think-"    
  
"Please."  The quiet intensity of Bernie's voice cuts through the excuse in a single syllable.  "I want to apologise to you.  Properly."  
  
"You really don't need to-"  
  
"I do."  Serena's still shuffling papers, looking for all the world as if she's engrossed in admin work, but Bernie pushes on regardless: "I know you're disappointed in me, Serena, and I don't blame you.  But I value our friendship -I value _you_ \- more than you think."  
  
She looks up at that, a startled gesture at odds with her studied lack of interest, and meets Bernie's clear stare with something that might, with a little coaxing, become a smile.  "Have you been practising that?"  
  
"Nope.  Just a wonderful piece of improvisation," Bernie shoots back, and is rewarded by the slow curve of Serena's lips into an unwilling smile.  "Let me take you out for dinner," she goes on.  "Make up for being an ungrateful, thoughtless screw-up."  
  
Serena looks almost charmed, her gaze speculative, until she shakes her head, oblivious to Bernie's sudden look of concern.  "...Jason," she says, apologetically.  "He's at home and I really do have to be back to cook him dinner.  I promised him bolognese."  
  
"Well then let me come over and cook for you.  Both of you."  
  
"...cook for me."  Serena's voice is slightly suspicious.  "Right.  Just to check...you _can_ actually cook?"  
  
"I know.  Doesn't quite fit with the terrible mother stereotype, does it?"  
  
"Not...exactly."  She studies her for a moment, assessing, curious.  "Anyway, why dinner?  It doesn't seem your style.  Plus, you know me, bunch of flowers, nice bottle of Shiraz, and I'm all yours."  
  
Bernie laughs, softly, as if she's not quite sure whether it's a joke or not, then crosses her arms over her chest, eyes fixed deliberately at a random spot of no more significance than that it is absolutely not Serena's face.  "It's not about the dinner, it's-"  
  
"It's about time," Serena finishes for her, realisation hitting.  
  
Bernie nods.  "When I was in the army-  Well, time is precious, and who you spend it with really does...mean something."  She flashes Serena a slightly embarrassed smile.  "Ridiculous as it might sound."  
  
"You're not in the army any more, Bernie."  
  
"Yes, well.  I'm not sure my subconscious has gotten that message yet."  
  
"Mmmm."  A moment, a second, of indecision, and then she relents.  "Alright then, Berenice Wolfe.  I hope you make a good bolognese."  
  
***  
  
Jason lays his knife and fork neatly down and smiles.  "That was really nice.  Thank you, Bernie."  
  
Next to him, Serena pushes her empty plate away with a groan.  "Too nice.  I'm not going to be able to move for the rest of the evening."  
  
"Well luckily for you, my talents extend to the washing up."  Bernie's already up, gathering plates and bowls and stacking them neatly next to the sink.  She glances at the clock.  "And just in time for QI, as well, Jason!"

  
He's up from the table and in the living room in a trice, prompting a chuckle from Serena.  "Honestly, that boy and his quiz shows."  Settling back into her chair, she sips her wine.  "Thank you for the flowers, by the way.  And the Shiraz.  You really didn't have to-"  
  
"I wanted to," Bernie says briskly.  "I wanted to apologise properly."  
  
"Well you've certainly done that."  She watches as Bernie balances a saucepan precariously on top of a mountain of bowls; the whole structure wobbles dangerously.  "That's something of a military operation you've got going there," she offers, getting to her feet.  "I'll do the drying, shall I?"  
  
"No, it's-"  
  
"Bernie, you've done enough.  You can stop apologising now."  She pulls a dripping plate from her grasp, wipes it clean in two precise sweeps of the towel.  "Let me help."  
  
The last few dishes bob in the soapy water, temporarily forgotten as she leans against the edge of the sink with slippery-wet hands and risks a sidelong glance at Serena: "I'm afraid I seem to be needing your help an awful lot these days."    
  
"What else are friends for."  
  
"The thing is-"  Bernie closes her eyes against the admission.  "You know, yesterday- if you hadn't been there, I don't think I would have told them at all."  
  
Serena fixes her with a determined gaze.  "You underestimate yourself.  And you overestimate my influence."  
  
"No."  It's emphatic, but she repeats it, softer this time: "No.  No, Serena, I don't think I do.  Your influence has been- is-"  She hesitates, frowning, visibly struggling to choose the right words.  "Brilliant," she finishes.  
  
Serena's lips curve upwards in a radiant smile and for a moment there's nothing but the soft fizzing of bubbles in the sink, the heavy tick of the clock on the far wall, as they stare at each other.    
  
Jason's voice breaks the silence, sudden and unexpected, his entrance into the kitchen masked by the low murmur of the television in the next room, and they both jump slightly at the intrusion: "What's for dessert, Auntie Serena?"  
  
Serena collects herself first and turns to Bernie, eyebrows raised.  The challenge in her voice is audible: "Well?"  
  
"...shit."  She looks apologetically at her. "I didn't plan that far ahead."  
  
"Right, well, let's have a look in the fridge, shall we?"  Serena's hand is light on Bernie's arm, drawing her over to the far corner of the kitchen, and the sparkling warmth that has been missing ever since the day before is back in her eyes.  "Come on, we'll sort something out.  Together."


End file.
